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As grim as the squad room was during the day, it was worse at night, the overhead lighting giving off a deadening white illumination. The place smelled of whatever food had been dumped into the trash cans during the day.
I threw a container of cold coffee into the garbage and turned on my computer as Rich followed suit. I called up a database, and although I was prepared for a long search for Garry Tenning’s life story, everything we needed flashed onto my computer screen in minutes.
There was an outstanding warrant for Tenning’s arrest. It was a small-potatoes charge of failure to appear in court for a traffic violation, but any arrest warrant was good enough to bring him in.
And there was more.
“Garry Tenning is employed by Conco Construction,” Rich said. “Tenning could be patrolling any of a hundred job sites. We won’t be able to locate him until Conco’s office opens in the morning.”
“He have a license to carry?” I asked.
Rich’s fingers padded across his keyboard.
“Yep. Current and up-to-date.”
Garry Tenning owned a gun.
Chapter 104
THE NEXT MORNING a heavy gray torrent came down on San Francisco like one of the forty days of the flood.
Conklin parked our squad car in a vacant construction zone on Townsend in front of Tower 2 of the Beacon, a residential high-rise with retail shops on the ground floor, including the Starbucks where Tenning and Fox had met.
On a clear day, we would have had a good view of both the front doors of the six-story redbrick Blakely Arms and the narrow footpath that ran from Townsend along the east side of the building, leading back to the courtyard and rear entrance.
But today’s rain nearly obliterated our view through the windshield.
Inspectors Chi and McNeil were in the car behind us, also peering through the downpour. We were scanning the locale for a white man, five six with thinning brown hair, possibly wearing a uniform and probably packing a Colt revolver.
Unless he changed his pattern, Tenning would stop at the Starbucks, then cross Townsend, arriving “home” sometime between 8:30 and 9:00.
We were guessing that Tenning would take the footpath to the rear entrance of the building, use a key to the back door, and take the fire stairs, avoiding tenants.
I watched through the blurred windows as pedestrians in trench coats, their faces shielded by black umbrellas, stopped at the Walgreens, dropped off laundry at Fanta dry cleaners, scurried for the Caltrain.
Rich and I were both dangerously sleep deprived, so when a man matching Tenning’s description crossed Townsend, no coffee in hand, I couldn’t be sure if he was our guy — or if I just wanted him to be our guy. Really, really badly.
“In the gray Windbreaker, black umbrella,” I said.
A light changed to green, and the stream of traffic obscured our view long enough for the suspect to disappear in the crush of pedestrians on the far side of the street. I thought maybe he’d slipped down the Blakely Arms’ back alley.
“Yeah. Yeah. I think so,” Conklin said.
I called Chi, told him we were about to make our move. We let a couple of minutes pass — then Conklin and I put up our collars and made for the front entrance of the Blakely Arms.
We rode an elevator to the fifth floor. Then I used Portia Fox’s key to unlock her front door without opening it.
I drew my gun.
When Chi and McNeil arrived, Conklin breached the door to Fox’s apartment. The four of us stepped inside and checked each of the outer rooms before approaching Tenning’s private space.
I put my ear to the flimsy door, heard a drawer closing, shoes falling one after the other onto the uncarpeted floor.
I nodded to Conklin, and he knocked on Tenning’s door.
“SFPD, Mr. Tenning. We have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Get the hell out of here,” an angry voice called back. “You don’t have a warrant. I know my rights.”
